


Two solutions to an uncomfortable situation

by electronic_elevator



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Constipation, Crying, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Laxative Use, Multiple Endings, Other, POV Second Person, Scat, clean up, pants messing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29452194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electronic_elevator/pseuds/electronic_elevator
Summary: The Actor, after several hours of visible discomfort, admits he’s very constipated. You offer to helpsurely withnoulterior motives whatsoeverand your helpdoesfinally grant him relief — in one way or another — even if he’s left more than a little embarrassed.
Relationships: Actor Mark/Reader - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. Admitting to the problem

**Author's Note:**

> Have a(nother) CYOA fic, because I wanted to write both versions of my idea for this. Let's call it in honor of ADWM's 4th anniversary.

Mark had been irritable, fidgety, and frustrated today — and increasingly so as the day went on. It was unusual, and he had gotten up and left for a bit at least a dozen times, which made you even more worried. He’d been dodging any implication that something might be wrong at all, like when you suggested laying down for a bit or asked him if he needed anything. You were going to have to be more direct. The next time he tried to leave, you stopped him. “Mark, where do you keep going? What’s wrong?” 

He bristled, but seemed almost flustered when he answered, “Nothing is wrong.” 

“Is it something I can help with?” 

“ _No,_ ” he insisted. 

“…I’m worried, Mark,” you pleaded with a frown. 

His expression turned conflicted. He ran a hand over his face, gesturing with the other one. “You don’t need to worry.” 

“You’d say that about a lot of things I’d disagree with you on.” 

The Actor grimaced. He absolutely did not want to tell you the problem, but it had been clear for hours that he was worrying you. He’d kept telling himself it’d be settled and done with soon and thus he didn’t need to explain, but he was losing hope that that was the case. “…Fine! Fine. I’m… constipated, alright? It’s not a big deal; it’s just _uncomfortable_. I’ve tried to go but it hasn’t exactly… worked.” That felt like an understatement. No matter how many times he went to the toilet and pushed and squirmed and waited, nothing came out, even though he was so full that a dull but constant aching need plagued him. All he’d gotten for his efforts was soreness from all the straining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 for Ending 1: Give Mark an oral laxative. (Leads to him messing himself and you cleaning him up.)  
> Chapter 3 for Ending 2: Give Mark a suppository laxative. (Leads to desperation and just barely making it to the toilet.)


	2. Ending 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've chosen to get Mark an oral laxative.

You were relieved to hear that it wasn’t anything scary. This could be easily fixed. “Oh, I’m sorry, my love. You know we have laxatives, right?” 

He hadn’t actually checked — firstly, because of his assumption that surely things would get moving soon, and then lately because the discomfort was distracting enough that he wasn’t thinking straight.

When he didn’t answer, you decided to take action. “Don’t suffer for no reason. I’ll go mix you up some.” You kissed his nose and got up, not waiting for his reply. 

“Y/N—” He was willing to admit that he should take some, but he could at least get it himself..!

“Be right back!” you called.

* * *

You mixed the stuff up and brought it back to him. “Here you go; drink up,” you instructed. 

With a noise of displeasure, he chugged the grainy mixture, then stole your nearby water bottle to rinse the taste down. …Of course, nothing happened _instantly_. It’s not that he’d expected it to, but he was somehow a little annoyed by it anyway. He recognized the stuff — you’d both taken it before in the occasional time of need; it was pretty fast-acting, if he remembered correctly. 

You settled beside him after stealing your water back. Gently, you rubbed his tummy, and were a little shocked that you could _tell_ from the bloat and the firmness. “Oh, dearest, no wonder you’re so uncomfortable. I can feel it.” 

The Actor instantly flushed red, but he didn’t push you away. “I _know._ ” 

“How many days has it been?” you chided. He’d clearly let it get quite bad. 

“Like, four? Five? I don’t tend to mark the calendar for it,” he grumbled. Your line of questioning was embarrassing but he didn’t want to push you away.

“Jeez. You should’ve done something sooner.” Though you were scolding him, your tone was soft. You just didn’t want him to be in pain, and you wished he’d take better care of himself in general. “Does this help?” you asked softly, inclining your head to indicate where you were rubbing his tummy. 

“Yes,” the Actor murmured, the blush still on his face. It wasn’t necessarily helping the pain, but he liked the attention, the way it validated his frustration and discomfort. Even though it wasn’t anything truly serious, he’d felt awful all day, and curling into your side while you soothed him did help, just a little. “How long until they kick in?” he asked. 

“Like a couple hours. Wanna watch something while w—”

“—a couple of hours?!” he complained, squirming plaintively. 

“Well, that’s digestion for you. You aren’t supposed to wait until it gets this bad…” 

“Fine,” he said irritably, settling back down. “If you want, put something on.”

You forgave him for being short with you and pressed a kiss to his jaw before moving for the remote.

* * *

It was only a half hour or so later when the Actor stiffened. His guts were cramping, and with it came a spike in the ever-present need he’d been feeling to something more like urgency. He’d been fooled by this before, but he had to try… he had to go so badly. His stomach grumbled audibly and he tried not to blush when you looked at him curiously. He realized he was going to have to tell you — report that he needed to try to go again, like a child, and even then might have to come back after with no success. “I’ve gotta get up; it feels like I could go,” he decided on. And it really did… like if he just pushed, he might finally have some relief.

“Oh? Okay,” you replied, moving back to make it easier for him to get up. It was too soon for the laxatives to have kicked in, you thought, but maybe he got lucky. …Part of you wanted to ask if he wanted you to come with him, but assuredly his answer would be no, so you kept quiet.

The Actor stood quickly and hurried off to the bathroom. Even as he walked, though, both the spike of pain from the cramps _and_ the sensation that anything at all was _moving_ left him. “No, no, no,” he muttered, frustrated. He kept going, anyway, and sat down on the toilet _yet again_ , desperate for any kind of relief. “Fuck, please,” he swore, waiting a little to see if the feeling would come back. When there was nothing, he pushed, but the load filling him up didn’t move an inch. It was like his body somehow didn’t know that he had to go so desperately that it was all he could think about. “ _Fuck,_ ” he swore again, louder. Sitting here did no good, and with a quiet whimper, he gave up, washing his hands before storming back out to you. 

You could tell he hadn’t managed it when you saw the frown on his face and his hand resting gingerly on his strained abdomen. “…Nothing?” 

“Nothing,” he bemoaned, laying back on the couch. 

“I’m sorry, dearest… Give the laxatives a bit more,” you suggested. 

“But I was so close— if I’d gotten to the toilet faster, I’m sure I could’ve gone,” he complained. 

You hated to see him so miserable, but there wasn’t much you could do. After a moment, one thing occurred to you, but he wasn’t going to like it. “…if you need to, Mark, just try to go here next time it hits.” 

“What?!” Mark immediately looked at you, searching your face as if he didn’t know what you meant with an expression of disgust on his own. 

“Just… go in your pants. It’s more important that you’re okay; this isn’t healthy,” you reiterated, purposefully trying to make it clear that it didn’t have to be a big deal. It was for his health and comfort. 

…It _had_ crossed his mind earlier, but he was absolutely _not_ going to do it. At least, that’s what he’d decided the first time he had the thought. That was before he’d been narrowly denied relief for what felt like the hundredth time. If, a few minutes ago, he’d just stood up, squatted, and pushed… he might not be in pain anymore, and he wanted that _so_ badly… he couldn’t just _purposefully shit his pants,_ though! And _not_ in front of you. “That’s disgusting,” he said, somewhere between scandalized and thoughtful. 

“You don’t have to,” you added, seeing the conflict in his eyes. You really wouldn’t mind, though, if that’s what he had to do to deal with this. 

“Right,” he said, voice still thoughtful even as he insisted, “I’m not going to do something so debased, Y/N, I’ll— I’ll be fine. As you said, it’s probably just a matter of waiting longer for the medicine to kick in.” Until then, he’d try to put it out of his mind. 

It proved harder than he thought. He just felt awful, so much so that he was squirming, unable to get comfortable enough to sit still, let alone forget about the problem. He knew you were concerned; you tried to soothe him with physical comforts and reassurances, but even laying down with his head on your lap and your fingers in his hair, he was just so _full_ and it just _hurt._ He tried not to whine — acting like this (especially since you knew the reason) was embarrassing enough. 

When the need to go _finally_ spiked again, he almost panicked. “Oh, fuck, I— I think I can—” he started, and then cut himself off, unsure even what he was going to say. It wasn’t terribly urgent, but he thought he could go, and despite his reservations he knew he was going to try to shit his pants — the thought that he might not be able to get any of this out of him was more unthinkable than this alternative; he couldn’t take any longer tormented like he had been. 

He was blushing as he stood, and when he didn’t move to run off to the bathroom, you were pretty sure of his decision. You stood with him, moving to his side in case… well, you weren’t sure. In case he needed you. 

“I’m gonna push,” he said, voice unsure. “I—I’ve gotta; I just— don’t watch.”

“I’m not; it’s okay. Just go — I… I want to be here if you need help,” you said.

The Actor was too afraid to lose his window of opportunity to continue to try and get you to leave — at least you weren’t behind him anymore. He was already leaning forward, and despite how wrong it felt, he let himself squat slightly and began to push. “A-ahh, it’s— fuck, it’s moving,” he whimpered. Without thinking, he clutched onto your arm. He’d expected more resistance, after all day, but he was already being stretched open; he felt his abdomen contract, pushing the load further without his conscious effort. Mark winced — he’d already been sore, and it was still dry and hard and far too large to be comfortable. Just a little more, though, and he’d finally have some relief. It was already pressing up against his pants. He had to stop to breathe, though — as soon as he stopped pushing, the log began to rock back into him, and he whimpered “ _No—_ ” He tried again, pushing as hard as he could; he was _too_ full, he _couldn’t_ take it back into him, but pushing this hard he felt himself piss, spraying into his underwear and probably dribbling down his legs. Embarrassing, yes, but a secondary concern right now. In his head, he was chanting pleas that it would work — and finally, the log passed the point of no return, tenting out his pants briefly before breaking off. “ _Aaaah,_ ” the Actor panted, dimly realizing you were half-supporting him now. 

“Hey, you’ve gotta breathe,” you encouraged gently. You were just glad he’d been able to go; you could see the relief in his unfocused eyes. A glance down revealed his pants were wet, too, but it didn’t matter — you’d clean the floor if you had to.

“Can’t; it’s— _aaah,_ fuck—” The hard, knobby part had given away to something softened up by the laxative, and not entirely consciously, he tensed up and pushed again; the softer log came out much easier, though now he was so sore that it hurt anyway, making him grunt and whine. It coiled up against him, surprisingly hot in temperature. It felt huge held up against his ass by his underwear, but he could tell there was so much more.

“Don’t stop, dearest; keep pushing, get it all out of you,” you murmured. You wanted to stroke his cheek, but you couldn’t in this position. He was so embarrassed, and from that or the strain or both there were tears in his eyes — you felt so bad for him.

Mark was hardly thinking at all at this point but listened when you told him to push, loading his underwear with more soft shit which soon turned to wet mush. He wanted to cry — there was _so much_ piling up; he felt it squishing towards his front and creeping up his asscheeks and was afraid to move for fear something would spill out. Mark had no idea when he’d grabbed onto you, but given how weak his legs were from the strain and the sheer relief of finally being empty, he was grateful for the support. To add insult to injury, the last little bits came out noisily and mostly-liquid, splattering into his already-caked-on-mess, and he couldn’t suppress a dry sob. 

He’d really just completely shit himself because he couldn’t manage to use a toilet, and you’d seen the whole thing. He looked down, his vision swimming with tears. 

“It’s okay, Mark; I know you weren’t feeling well. Is it better now?” you asked softly, gently. 

He nodded. Mark _just_ wanted to go clean up, so at the risk of breaking down crying, he forced himself to speak. “I need to clean up.” _Please help,_ he wanted to beg. He just wished there were some way you could do it without actually seeing what he’d done. But he really had no idea how _he’d_ do it without _tracking_ or _spilling_ anything, and you were always so good at this sort of thing—

“Do you want my help?” you asked tentatively, unsure if he would be too embarrassed to accept. 

“Yes, please,” he said, voice thick with shame and tears. 

“Alright, darling, come on; we should go to the bathroom…” Letting go of him, you thought, wouldn’t be a good idea, but you gently pulled one arm free so you could lead him. 

As you moved forward, clearly expecting the Actor to follow — he’d have to, unless he let you go, and he didn’t want to do that — he felt a stab of panic. The mess was only barely contained, if that, and if he walked… but he couldn’t _tell_ you that, so he took a step, wincing at the mess shifting. You felt how tense he was and didn’t rush him, but even after a couple more steps, he felt soft shit oozing down his leg and took a shuddering, near-sob of a breath. 

“You alright?” you asked.

The Actor felt he couldn’t be further from _alright,_ and gave you a look that said as much. “ _No._ Just— keep going.” 

More steps, more shit squelching out of his underwear. His pants seemed to be preventing it from falling out onto the floor at the cost of smearing it along his upper thighs, leaving Mark feeling even more disgusting. You stayed quiet, urging him along as best you could. 

“Here, okay, let’s just get you clean. It’s alright; I promise. I’m so sorry you’re feeling so bad.” You had to let go of him, now, and he hated the way his heart twisted when you did. He needed to be held and reassured only a hair less than he needed to be cleaned up. “How do you want me to…?” 

“Augh, I don’t know,” Mark mumbled, frustrated and upset. He looked down at himself, trying to figure out a plan, but only winced when he realized how far down his legs he’d peed; he’d thought it was only a couple of spurts, but he’d left a very large wet patch and would have to go back to check the carpet. He wanted to undress himself, but really, it would be easier if you did it…

You walked up to him before he asked, gently taking his hands. “Let me.”

“Fine,” he mumbled. It certainly wasn’t ideal. He realized you were about to see the extent of his mess just before you dropped his hands and peered around his back. 

The bulk of it distended the seat of his pants, but the staining was worse at the top of his legs, revealing how it had oozed out of his underwear and been smeared on the journey. …You weren’t so sure if you could avoid making him more of a mess. “It’ll be easier if we do both at once,” you decided. Back at his front, he let you undo his fly and take the waistband of both his pants and underwear. You pulled the soiled clothes down, and Mark couldn’t help but whine — he could feel it smearing, and it’s not like he had a better idea, but he hated it. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, if a bit pinched, as you were trying not to breathe too deeply. 

Once you had them down at his ankles, Mark had to look down to step out of them. He made a noise of disgust at the smashed mess, feeling himself flush again at the knowledge you’d been looking at what he’d done the whole time. You murmured that it was okay, but it sure didn’t feel that way to Mark. He steadied himself on your shoulders as he took a careful step back, looking away as soon as he could. It was hard not to cringe in on himself, and tears burned at his eyes again. 

You just dumped the soiled clothing into the trash can. They weren’t worth salvaging. After tying up the bag in hopes of managing the smell, you turned to see Mark looking pathetic. “Oh, Mark… I’m sorry. Hm, maybe you should step into the shower. Don’t turn it on yet, though — I’ll get the worst of it off of you so that… yeah.” 

“I can do that, just give me—” the Actor started bitterly, but you cut him off. 

“No, no, let me do it. I told you I would help you, Mark.” You weren’t going to leave him to deal with it himself. He could, assuredly, but he’d feel worse; you knew him well enough to know that. You turned to get the wet wipes out of the cupboard. 

Getting in the shower sounded like a good idea, but after a first few careful steps, some of the shit caked onto his backside fell with an audible _plap_ onto the tile floor, and he felt himself go scarlet and still. 

You startled and turned around; he didn’t see your look of sympathy — er, maybe pity, to be honest — because he absolutely refused to look at you. But the tile was as easy to clean as he was; it would be fine. “…Stay there; I’ll just do it there,” you told him, rushing back to him. You hadn’t realized there’d been _enough_ for that to happen or you wouldn’t have suggested he get into the shower… and now you felt bad. 

Mark nodded stiffly, unable to find words.

“Turn. I’ll take care of the floor after you’re in the shower,” you directed. 

He listened, then adjusted to spread his legs slightly even though he was quite afraid that more would fall. He was actively not thinking about the possibility you’d get dirty with it. 

You moved quickly, hoping to get him in the shower and feeling better as soon as possible. It didn’t need to be perfect, so you went for the worst of it, clearing away some of the caked-on mess with each wipe. (You just piled the dirty wipes on the floor. You had to clean it anyway.) At least you were getting used to the smell. 

The coldness of the wipes against his skin was better than the clinging heat of his shit, at least. Mark tried not to squirm or rush you; he’d do anything to skip to being _clean,_ but he was as grateful for your help as he was completely humiliated. 

As soon as you thought it was appropriate, you told him “Alright, I think you should be good to shower.” 

The Actor tried not to look at you, his still-brown-streaked legs, or the floor as he climbed into the shower and turned the water on hot.

You wanted to say more — anything to comfort him — but decided it would be best to just let him get cleaned up. You gathered up the trash, then left to take it out. 

Mark finally couldn’t help but cry, hoping his quiet sobs were lost to the sound of the water. When you came back and went to work cleaning the floor, you had your suspicions, but decided not to interrupt… it wouldn’t help, not until he was ready to get out. After the floor was clean, you went to get a pair of soft pajamas for him. It was only afternoon, but you thought that’s what you would want in his position. 

He’d scrubbed himself twice. As far as he could tell, it looked like he’d gotten it all, but he just didn’t feel clean. He’d been considering round three when he gave a particularly hopeless sigh that prompted you to finally speak up. (Since you’d done everything you could, you were just hovering.) 

“Mark? How are you feeling?” 

Humiliated, disgusting, uncomfortable, …… “Miserable,” Mark sniffled out.

“…Okay, yeah. Don’t stay in there all day, though, my love. I brought you some clothes, and I’m waiting for you so we can go lay down together.” 

Your voice was soft and kind. As bad as this was, Mark thought, at least you were always understanding and loving. Cuddles would probably help more than a third wash. He shut off the water. 

He cast a suspicious glance to the floor outside the shower. It was a relief to see that you’d cleaned up after him — he didn’t want to think about what had happened anymore. After drying himself off, he walked over to you. “Where are those clothes?” he asked, sounding… tired. 

The poor thing’s eyes were red, confirming that he’d been crying. You just wanted to cuddle up to him and comfort him. “Here. I just got you pajamas.” 

Mark nodded his approval and stepped into them. You stood and hugged him just after he’d gotten the shirt over his head, and he slowly wrapped his arms back around you, holding you close. “How’s your tummy feeling?” you asked. 

“Empty. It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he murmured, hiding his face against your shoulder. 

“That’s good. That’s what we wanted; you just had to get all that out. …I know you’re not feeling too good overall, though. Do you wanna go lay down for a bit? We can cuddle.” 

Mark nodded against your shoulder, and in another few moments, pulled back from you enough that you could walk hand-in-hand into the bedroom. 

You spent most of the rest of the afternoon holding him close and whispering soft words of love and comfort, and it did make him feel much better than the shower had.


	3. Ending 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've chosen to give Mark a suppository laxative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for one allusion to the results of WKM. Also, this ending is more sexually charged (though still nothing overt) than the other ending.

“…Oh, darling, is that it? All _day_ , though?” Sure, it wasn’t the worst thing that could be wrong — and for that you were glad — but it must be awfully bad that he’d been this uncomfortable for this long. 

Mark blushed, grumbling some indistinct confirmation. 

“You know we have laxatives, right?”

Now that you said that, he did. The Actor hadn’t really thought to check, since for a long while he’d remained convinced he’d be able to go soon, and then lately he’d been too distracted to think about anything beyond how miserable he was. He should take some — it had him feeling cautiously hopeful. “…where are they — under the bathroom sink?”

“Hm, not sure.” 

You moved to stand, about to suggest you go together, but Mark protested. “I can get them myself.” It was only taking medicine, but he’d simply rather you not be involved given what it was _for_. 

“But… I know you’re thinking about the oral ones, but you know those take a couple hours to kick in, right?” By the way his face dropped… no, he did not. “I’m worried, Mark — it’s really not healthy to stay so backed up for so long. We have suppository ones. Those’ll work in just a bit, and I’ll help.” 

Having your partner help give you a suppository laxative was _objectively_ embarrassing, Mark thought, and felt his face growing hot again. At the same time, the idea of staying in torment for more _hours_ was horrifying. “If you just tell me where they are, I’m _sure_ I can manage,” he said. 

…He probably could, but… you wanted to help. “I think they’re under the sink,” you said, standing up despite the embarrassed huff of protest he gave. He didn’t say any more than that to stop you, though, so you walked up to the bathroom together. 

Further, he let you kneel down and get the small container out from under the sink. They hadn’t been used in a while, so they were towards the back. There was also a tub of vaseline, which you grabbed as well.

“Vaseline?” the Actor questioned.

You set both on the counter. “Well, it’s gotta go in you. I dunno if it’s necessary, but it’s probably good practice — like anything.” 

He pulled a face. “…Ah.”

“Will you let me help you?” you asked softly. 

Blushing, the Actor repeated, “I can handle it,” but you countered with, “But I want to help, Mark; I know you’re not feeling well.” 

It wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d done in front of you — or for you — and he knew you’d be gentle. Even if it was embarrassing, your loving attention was never wholly unwelcome when he was feeling sick or sad or something of the sort. He mumbled his agreement. “Okay. What should I do?”

“Take your pants down a bit and I’ll get the suppository ready.” You took one out of the container then coated up a couple of fingers in vaseline while Mark unfastened his pants before shoving them and his underwear down just past his ass. 

“That’ll work; good. Lean here,” you said softly, tapping the edge of the counter. Mark took your queue and leaned forward, grabbing the edge of the counter and more or less presenting himself to you. 

“Is it alright if I go ahead?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he confirmed. He wanted it over quickly — he didn’t want to endure the embarrassment for longer than he had to, and wanted it to kick in as soon as possible; his stomach still felt tight and painful and he’d much rather be curled up somewhere with you until the laxative took effect. 

You slid your slicked-up fingers along Mark’s hole, and he jumped. “ _Ow,_ ” he whined. 

“…That sore?” you asked, sympathetic, and Mark nodded harshly. 

In truth, it was mostly soreness but partially just _sensitivity_. He’d been in similar positions but much different circumstances under your hands, and he couldn’t help but think of them as you even-more-gently finished slicking him up. “That’s why we have the vaseline,” you said. Next, you picked up the suppository, making sure it got completely coated to slide in smoothly. It might be excessive for such a little thing, but you didn’t want to hurt him any more than he already was hurting.

“Here we go,” you warned him, lining up the suppository and pushing in firmly with one finger. 

Surprisingly, you drew out a little moan from Mark, which he muffled as best he could, dropping his head when he heard himself. He hadn’t expected it, either, but he was _so_ full that even your finger filling him up further was more than he felt like he could take; he knew he needed the medicine, but he wanted to whine and ask you to stop. This just seemed like insult to injury. 

“Almost done, Mark; you’ll feel better soon,” you murmured, only pausing long enough to make sure he was as alright as he could be. You were pretty sure you were pushing _into_ something but went in as far as you could, trying to make sure the suppository was deep enough inside him to be fully effective. Then you slipped your finger back out, politely pretending you didn’t hear the shame-drenched whimper Mark gave. 

“H-how long?” he asked. 

Your finger was indeed no longer clean — there was something decidedly brownish mixed with the vaseline, and you quickly moved to wash your hands. It was to be expected, and you weren’t particularly disgusted, but Mark would be upset if he saw, and he clearly wasn’t feeling particularly resilient between everything that had happened. 

“You should probably wait the full thirty minutes,” you advised.

“What do you mean?” Mark stood, pulling his pants back up a bit cautiously. He didn’t want to stand there exposed, but he thought the benefit of these was their quick action, and had been considering asking you to leave and just sitting on the toilet until things got moving — why would he wait longer than he had to? 

“You wouldn’t want to go too soon and only let some of it out, right? Let it work all the way. In the meantime, do you want to go watch TV or something? A distraction?” 

What you’d said seemed logical, though. Thirty minutes wasn’t terribly long, although it was certainly longer than he wanted to wait. Hopefully a distraction would make it go by quicker. The two of you walked back out to the living room. Mark all but curled up at your side, and you held his hand and put some garbage on TV that the two of you could watch but didn’t care about. 

The Actor settled beside you, pouting. Everything _hurt._ His stomach was cramping, and not in the way that would push anything out of him: just painfully, as his body protested his over-full bowels. He was still sore, and felt rather emotionally bruised after the whole scene in the bathroom. Still, he was grateful for your presence and quiet comfort while he squirmed and tried not to whine out loud. 

He could only barely focus on the TV. He was more aware of the subtly changing discomforts in his abdomen. As the minutes passed, he started to feel an urgency again — maybe the suppository was doing its job and loosening things up. “Hey, Y/N, I think I’m gonna try. I think it’s working,” he said. 

You looked at him. “It’s only been, what, five minutes? If you go now, you might get a little out, but you’ll lose the suppository in the process and still be constipated.” 

The Actor blushed again, insisting, “Then I’ll take another one!” 

“That’s not good for you, either. Just wait.” 

Didn’t you understand that it _hurt?_ It’s not like this happened every day; taking two suppositories — and he could keep the second one in for longer, because he wouldn’t be so strained and desperate if he managed to go a little bit — wouldn’t kill him. (In fact, nothing would, but bringing that up would upset you.) He stayed, though, if only because he didn’t want to argue about poop with you. 

The dim sense of urgency kept rising. The problem this whole time was the cursed fullness, but it felt different, somehow. Maybe it was gas? He pushed a bit, experimentally, but had to immediately stop when he realized what was going to come out was soft shit. Evidently, the new sensation was the now-softened part of the mass pressing against his hole. He didn’t think any actually came out, thank god, but something certainly _could,_ and would’ve if he’d kept it up. “I need to go now,” the Actor said seriously.

“You’ve needed to go this whole time.” 

“You _know_ what I mean. It’s working; I _can_ go now.” 

“You thought that before, you said. Mark, I know how frustrated you’ll be if you go all the way to the toilet and can only go a little bit.” It’s not like you’d stop him if he moved to get up, but you wanted to convince him to do what you thought was best — what would help him the most. 

He _knew_ this time, though, and knew it was more than _a little_ that he could get out, but he was absolutely not going to tell you he’d figured that out by trying to push here on the couch. (Evidently, you’d not noticed his tensing among his other squirms.) “Fine,” he agreed, if hesitantly. 

So, it was back to relative quiet for a few more minutes. “How long has it been?” he mumbled. 

“Uhh, not sure.” 

Mark gave an annoyed scoff, dropping your hand and pulling back from you just a bit. You were supposed to be keeping track of that! “You’re the one making me wait! How do you know it hasn’t been that thirty minutes you wanted?” 

You checked to see how long the program on TV had been running. “It’s been, like, 15.” 

Mark grumbled, fidgeting more now that he wasn’t curled up with you, and because he felt like he actually had to _try_ to hold it in; despite the morning’s struggles, it was hard for him to believe he wouldn’t be able to empty himself completely now. “Why 30 minutes, anyway?” 

“That’s what the box said it would take for maximum effectiveness. It’s just fifteen more minutes. I’ll watch the time more closely; I’ll let you know.”

There was no way he could make it that long; that was ridiculous. Before he could stop himself, he whined, “You’re gonna make me have an accident!” 

You blinked, taking in the way he was squirming with legs not-so-helpfully pressed together and face turning red again. “Okay, okay; we don’t want that. I didn’t— er, let’s go.” 

Mark rolled his eyes in an attempt to cover his embarrassment with exasperation. He was clenching his hole shut, at this point — an accident really wasn’t out of the question. But he swore internally that he would _not_ mess himself. He walked as quickly as he could; you offered him a hand, feeling a bit bad (but you would’ve thought he would’ve just gone if it was this bad..! he didn’t _have_ to listen to you!) but still wanting to support him… and he grabbed it tightly. This was your fault and all, but it was still comforting to know you were there to help. 

As soon as you crossed the bathroom threshold, Mark dropped your hand, fumbling with his pants on the last steps to the toilet. All he was thinking about was how badly he had to go and the discomfort from the fullness and cramping that seemed to take up his whole abdomen, so he didn’t think to tell you to leave, he just sat down as soon as his pants were out of the way, and pushed. This time, as if making up for the earlier struggles, it took almost nothing for soft, practically-liquid shit to fall out of him. He had definitely waited long enough. Mark groaned in relief, but the sound of the mixed mess and gas leaving him and then plopping into the water below him made him want to disappear — worse when some water splashed back against him, making him flinch. For a moment, he instinctively tried to stop going, but with his position on the toilet and the cramping in his belly it was no use, and his body continued emptying itself regardless. He caught himself whining — between the burn of his sore ass and the cramping, it really did hurt. Still, he pushed to help things along — it would hurt less if he just got it over with, not to mention that he’d gradually become aware again that he was _doing this in front of you._ He was blushing brightly enough he swore he could feel the heat radiating off his face, and he wasn’t sure if the tears in his eyes were ones of strain or simply humiliation. Most of it was out of him, though — _finally_. When he pushed again, he got mostly gas with a sputter of wet poop, so he stopped — he’d rather come back and try to go again when you couldn’t hear. He hadn’t been able to look at you he didn’t want to know if you’d been outright watching; he’d rather just tell himself you weren’t… but he couldn’t lie to himself that you’d left the room. Now, he faced another problem — he had to clean himself up, but even sitting on the toilet with his legs mostly together, the bathroom smelled like his shit. It was only going to get worse when he parted them, but there was no other way. 

You’d been debating speaking up and asking if he was done in the few moments he’d seemed to be. When Mark turned for the toilet paper, you said, “Wait! Wait, don’t use that. You’re gonna be sore. We have wipes.” You moved to the cabinet under the sink, pulling out the gentler baby wipes. “Just don’t drop them in the bowl. You have to put them in the garbage can.” 

…Your quick reaction had Mark’s self-assurance that you hadn’t been watching left on unsteady legs. Stiffly, he took the package of wipes from you, and you turned away and murmured, “I’m not looking; go ahead.” 

Facing the other way wouldn’t help the smell, he wanted to grumble as he took out a wipe. Unsurprisingly, the toilet was a mess, and so was his backside. Grimacing, he wiped as carefully as possible in an attempt to avoid getting any on his hands, but failed. “Ack— _eyugh…_ ” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“It’s— I— got it on my hand.” He just wanted to be empty and clean and done with this! “I can’t get up to wash them yet.” he admitted. He could use his other hand, but—

“Just use a wipe for now, my love,” you said, and then Mark felt stupid. He threw out the one he was holding and got a clean one, wiping the smear from his hand before going back at the mess on his backside. It took a couple more wipes — granted, he wasn’t using them very efficiently — for one to come away clean. To make matters worse, partway though, you murmured, “You done? Everything alright?” and he’d had to tell you “ _No_ , just give me a minute…” But then, a minute later, he was able to stand up and fasten his pants without fearing soiling them. 

“Do you feel better now?” you asked gently. Mark nodded, hesitant with embarrassment, with a glance to you as he washed his hands. 

“Don’t let it get this bad next time before you tell me or take something for it, alright? It’s not healthy and it would hurt less.” 

“…Yeah,” Mark said, still grumbling. He didn’t really want to talk about it!

You suggested going back to watch some more TV, and Mark agreed. Mark was a little extra clingy and cuddly for the day — seeking comfort and reassurance after the embarrassing ordeal — but you didn’t comment on it. You’d give him all the love he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you thought ^_^


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